Quest for a King
by Umeko
Summary: AU set in the French Revolution. Can the Inseparables succeed in their mission to rescue a little boy? [On Hiatus]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexandre Dumas.

This is a definite AU set in the late 18th century. There will be tweaking of historical facts but effort will be made to keep the timeline and major events straight wherever possible. By the reign of Louis XVI, the King's musketeers had long ceased to exist in the form as portrayed by Dumas.

**Chapter 1**

_14 July 1789, Paris _

The summer heat was always oppressive in the city of Paris. The citizens suffered and grumbled amidst the stench from the Seine, which was akin to that of a stagnant cesspit. Constance's current condition only caused her to suffer more and she was pale and wan. Still, D'Artagnan could not help but beam with happiness when he considered his wife and their unborn child. Constance was nearing her time. He had prepared the nursery in the top room of their townhouse in Paris, above the miasma of foul air which plagued the city on most days. Perhaps with careful saving and a few more years in the musketeer corps, he would be able to buy a house in the countryside with sprawling gardens for their children to gambol in. He almost regretted his decision to sell off the family farm after his parents passed on, but Constance did not take well to life in Gascony. Being city-bred, she had no idea how to run a farm in his absence.

They had seen Porthos off the day before. Their friend was sailing for a new life in the colonies in the company of a merry widow from Marseilles he met during their last mission together. Athos had returned to his estates in Normandy to spend more time tending to his lands and in the company of his son. He'd miss having Athos and Porthos around in Paris. Then there was Aramis. D'Artagnan's brow furrowed at the thought of the former musketeer. Aramis had always been the intellectual one in their company. He had once pondered a career in the clergy before deciding against it. Aramis then fell in with a group of intellectuals. In Aramis' company, D'Artagnan had attended one of those discussions at the local coffeehouse once. He could not grasp the arguments put forward by the speakers. He was a simple man with simple concerns – serving the king and France while eking out a living and providing for his family.

The entire musketeer corps was both scandalized and shocked when Aramis left them and promptly signed on as a clerk for the Duke of Orleans, better known as Philippe Egalite. Everyone knew the Orleanists were in conflict with their royal master. Then he made the acquaintance of some firebrands which D'Artagnan did not trust one bit. Aramis continued living in Paris. D'Artagnan had seen his friend the other day in the street.

"_Change is happening, D'Artagnan… perhaps it will be sooner than we think…"_

"_Aramis, I do not like this at all." _

Some of the speeches and pamphlets making the rounds bordered on slander. Though D'Artagnan had to admit that Her Majesty might be too fond of a certain Swede and His Majesty sometimes lacked the determination and charisma of his predecessors. Louis XV had left behind a country teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. The war in the Americas did not help either. Porthos and Athos had seen action in that war as young soldiers. Athos deplored the excesses of his fellow nobles after inheriting the title of Comte after his elder brothers were taken by smallpox. Porthos' decision to leave France might have been triggered by the vista of opportunities in the Americas for a man like him. Perhaps Aramis was right. Something was wrong with France…

"I think she just kicked me…" Constance's voice cut into his thoughts. She rubbed her very swollen belly. She had her feet resting on a cushioned footstool as she fanned herself. Rivulets of sweat ran down her face.

"It might be a boy," D'Artagnan could not resist teasing her. "Or perhaps it will be both. They might be twins…"

"Please help me get the best china… The Beauforts will be coming for dinner later… The top shelf…" Constance scowled slightly. She was in no mood for teasing. Her current condition had forced her to leave her post as Her Majesty's lady-in-waiting. D'Artagnan knew that she might be missing all the constant parties and entertainments of Versailles. There was little to do in their modest home for entertainment now that she was so huge playing the harpsichord was difficult. He nodded and started up the stepladder to reach the top shelf of their cupboard.

The bustle of activity from the street had been building like a hive of agitated bees all morning, but the D'Artagnans paid it little heed. Now the tumult rose again amidst the torturous heat of the day. Voices were raised in anger and frustration at petitions ignored, heavy taxations and other injustices perceived. Constance waddled over to the open window for some air. Perhaps it was then that the spark was lit, or the smouldering ember of resentment had taken flame earlier. D'Artagnan was blissfully unaware, until he heard the screams and the sound of muskets fired in the street.

"Constance! Get away from the window!" he shouted as he scrambled down the step ladder, carelessly smashing their best china on the floor as he did so. The commotion sounded dangerously close. Constance stayed by the window as if stunned. D'Artagnan hurried to his wife's side…

"Mattie! Get a doctor! Hurry!" he screamed for their maid. The front of his wife's dress was stained red. The maid hurried to the parlour where they were, took one look at her stricken mistress and ran like a hare for the doctor.

"Constance, please… no…" D'Artagnan pleaded as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from her pierced throat. Perhaps it was musket shot or a stray pistol ball. It did not matter. His wife fought to breathe, speak but she choked on the blood rapidly flooding her throat…

That day the citizens of Paris laid siege to the Bastille and the proud fortress fell. D'Artagnan plunged into the depths of despair.

* * *

_21 Jan 1793, Paris_

Aramis sighed. It was never supposed to end this way. _The King is dead. Long live the King…_ He silently regarded the corpse laid out in its coffin. Louis XVI had never been much of a character in life. In death, he just looked almost pathetic. He never believed they would actually go through with the execution. How the people were said to have wept and then rushed to soak their handkerchiefs in his blood! They would bury him, of course… but who would succeed him? The dauphin was a young boy. Perhaps it would be the Duke of Orleans who would ascend the throne… Or perhaps there would be no king, like in the former English colonies of the Americas.

Most nobles had fled France by now, but not Athos. Aramis heard recent whispers of a royalist army gathering in the north, waiting their chance to free the royal family. He would not be surprised if Athos was among them. Well, they're too late to save Louis XVI. It was almost a blessing D'Artagnan was no longer on French soil. Aramis had pulled a few strings to help Athos send their friend over to England. Then there was poor Porthos…

"Citizen Ernst!" Aramis called out to the tavern-keeper. Ernst Defarge nodded in a terse greeting. The tavern was almost empty at this hour.

"Have you seen Citizen Porthos?" The man nodded in the direction of the darkest corner of his establishment.

"Have a care for your friend, citizen. He is deep in his cups, if they should hear him… It's prison or worse…" Ernst warned as he passed Aramis. Porthos barely looked up at Aramis' approach. Lady Luck had chosen to abandon Porthos upon his landing in the New World. First, a tropical fever carried off his wife and infant son. Then his coffee crop failed and he was bankrupted. Having no means to make his way in the colonies, Porthos became a sailor on a merchantman bound for France with the aim of re-joining the musketeers. Upon his arrival in Marseilles, he found the France he knew no longer existed. The musketeers were disbanded. Their captain de Treville was killed by the mob when they marched on Versailles herself. Porthos had almost been reduced to begging when Aramis found him and gave him a job.

"What happened, Aramis? They've killed him… How am I to tell them?"

"They'll hear of it soon enough, though not from you… someone else will tell them," Aramis sat down facing his friend. Perhaps it was a mistake getting Porthos a job as a prison guard, especially now that the members of the royal family languished in the same prison where he worked. Porthos always had a soft spot for children and both the dauphin and his sister were very young.

* * *

_Nantes_

His Majesty was dead. Athos regarded the latest piece of news Grimaud brought from the market sourly. Things were grim for him and any nobleman still lingering on French soil. Raoul must be sent abroad as soon as possible. He would stay and fight alongside any royalist. But Raoul was a stubborn lad, even at the tender age of ten. _Would he go quietly if ordered?_ D'Artagnan was another matter entirely when he made the crossing.

Athos closed his eyes and thought back to his young friend. Constance's death and that of the twins she had been carried devastated D'Artagnan. He had been shocked when Aramis arrived on his doorstep two years ago with D'Artagnan. Their friend had aged terribly and was a shell of his former self. All the life seemed to have gone out of him. Athos had foolishly expected D'Artagnan to recover once he was done grieving. He had underestimated the extent of his despair.

"_He hardly sleeps and barely eats. He hasn't spoken much except to mourn her. He has given up caring for his person. The doctors have prescribed their powders and potions but he's not improving. My master requires me to travel and I'm not leaving him in some asylum while I'm away,"_ Aramis informed him sadly then. The ensuing months were a trial on Athos' household. Twice he had found the patient shivering in his nightclothes in the rain, and once Athos had walked in to find D'Artagnan had broken a mirror and was apparently unaware he had lacerated his forearms.

Athos soon discovered that his friend had become addicted to the laudanum prescribed by the doctors. Every night he sought solace in drugged dreams. Deprived of it, D'Artagnan suffered. Yet an overdose could easily kill. On the rare occasions when D'Artagnan was himself, he would be disgusted by his weakness and swear to Athos to give up the drug. Cursing whatever quack physicians had been treating his friend, Athos tried to wean his friend off it. Yet he would always give in to the pleas and threats of self-harm D'Artagnan uttered whenever the craving overtook him.

Caught up in the events shaking their country, Aramis did not come back for D'Artagnan. The events soon caught up with Athos on the quiet estate he had retreated to with D'Artagnan. His fellow nobles made arrangements for their wives and children to be sent abroad to safety. Then Aramis informed Athos of a French noble in London willing to receive D'Artagnan as a guest. If he had been himself, D'Artagnan would have protested, but he was in a drugged stupor when Athos saw him off with the would-be émigrés. If he did not die from an overdose, the Gascon would be out of it until the ship put in at London and his laudanum ran out.

Athos had received a terse letter from D'Artagnan's hostess on his condition and a stern rebuke for his failure in breaking the man's addiction. De Beaumont's suggestion was a little extreme but the old woman was always one to court controversy. No further letters were received after that. Athos motioned for his servant to fetch him another bottle of wine. Raoul would be sleeping still…

"Papa…" Raoul trotted down the stairs in his nightshirt. Fear was painted on his face. Before he could speak, someone kicked in the door.

"Comte de la Fere! We hereby arrest you for crimes against country!" Bayonets and muskets in hand, the soldiers poured into the room.

"Papa is no traitor!" Raoul shouted before Athos or Grimaud could stop him.

"No!" Athos shouted. Raoul launched himself at the nearest soldier, only to have the butt of a musket smashed into his head with a resounding crack. The stunned boy dropped like a sack of oats. Blood oozed and stained the floorboards. With their bayonets still trained on his son, Athos did not dare resist as they bound him.

"Monsieur! Please let me see to the boy!" Athos pleaded to no avail. Grimaud was leaning over the limp form. Apparently the warrant for arrest included the manservant too. The soldiers seized hold of the man's arms and tied them behind his back in the same manner they did with Athos. Raoul was not moving at all. Athos did not know how badly he was injured or if he still breathed.

"Raoul! Athos screamed as the soldiers dragged them from the building, leaving Raoul behind.

It was much later in their dank prison cell that Athos' silent servant was able to relay the message to him that Master Raoul still breathed when they left him.

**Author's Notes:**

You know what happened in France in the late 18th century – the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. The former musketeers are smack in the midst of it. For the record, we can consider England friendly at this point, at least to fleeing French nobles.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexandre Dumas.

**Chapter 2**

_London, April 1793_

London was a little like Paris, but far cooler and wetter. D'Artagnan fought the urge to sneak off to the local apothecary for more laudanum. Mme de Beaumont was right. He gained nothing from indulging in his drugged dreams of what might have been. He caused his friends nothing but grief. He was disgusted with himself and swore never to return to that stuff again. Still, the urge gnawed at him like a worm at times. D'Artagnan had learned earlier that the old apothecary on Stand Lane was none too particular when dispensing his powders and the boy Durand was easily bribed to bring him the drug. Then de Beaumont caught on to his addiction and challenged him to a sparring match.

He never admitted to himself how much his health had suffered from his addiction until his hostess had disarmed him thrice in a row. De Beaumont was an accomplished swordswoman in her own right but losing to a woman well into her sixties was enough to put things into perspective for D'Artagnan. He was out of breath by the end of the third round but de Beaumont was only as winded as if she had taken a leisurely stroll in the park. D'Artagnan agreed to be locked up in the cellar for a full month, chained to his heavy cot and surviving on bread and water with only the old lady to tend to him. No threats or pleas would move her. He had suffered through the worst of the cravings and pains in his self-imposed prison while his hostess read aloud from the Bible at his bedside.

"Monsieur! You got me!" the servant boy yelped and clutched his chest as if stabbed. He flopped onto the floor and faked a death rattle. The poker rolled out of his grasp. D'Artagnan lowered his weapon, a knobbly walking stick. They had been chopping wood for the fire before the rain started and then Durand wanted to practise at fencing in the cramped quarters of the servant's parlour.

"Durand! Get off the floor, you lazybones. Our guests would be here any minute…" the cook yelled and swatted the boy with a dishrag. Durand flipped back onto his feet like an acrobat before scampering off to attend to his other chores. "As for Monsieur… Madame invites you to join her for dinner…" D'Artagnan groaned inwardly. Part of his hostess' good intentions involved introducing him to eligible young women in the hopes he would start a new life and family, but he was not quite ready for that yet. The ache of losing Constance was still too fresh. At least he had defeated his addiction, for now. He had the old harridan to thank for it.

* * *

De Beaumont was knitting in the library, beside the nearly empty bookshelves. She had been forced to sell her extensive collection of books after the revolution cut off her pension from the French court, leaving her near-penniless. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe she had served under Louis XV as both a spy and soldier in the guise of a man. Yet people claimed her loyalties were often divided and the old king had her banished. It was only during the reign of Louis XVI that she was allowed to return from her exile in England briefly. It was then that she confessed her true gender. Sometime during her too brief return to France, she had befriended Aramis.

In her time as a soldier, she had met D'Artagnan's father and the late de Treville. Perhaps it was this past acquaintance with his father that finally persuaded the old woman to take D'Artagnan on as a guest in her home for the meagre fee Aramis and Athos could spare between them. "_One was too honest and it cost him his career, the other too loyal and paid for it with his life. We live in troubled times indeed_," she had remarked of D'Artagnan's father and the late captain. The spinster was prone to wry observations of various nobles.

"The Darnays and their daughter would be visiting us… You do remember Dr Manette? He will be joining us too…" the old woman clicked her needles as she spoke. D'Artagnan let out an audible sigh of relief. He recalled the good doctor and his charming granddaughter, a mere child.

"Has there been any news from Athos or Aramis?" D'Artagnan asked. The old woman shook her head.

D'Artagnan had been too caught up in his own grief and the subsequent addiction to feel anything much when news of de Treville's death reached him at Athos'. Now that he was his own master again, he feared daily for his friends' safety.

"They say Comte de la Fere is a stubborn man, but he is still a father. He will think of his son and send him to safety… As for Aramis, he has enough cunning to match a fox. Don't think of going back to France now, Charlot…" she clicked her needles without missing a stitch.

"Ma'am, it's Georges. Charlot's my father's name…" D'Artagnan corrected her gently to no avail. De Beaumont always got his name confused with someone else's. Sometimes it was a sign she wanted to end the conversation. He walked over to the bookcase.

"If you are looking for Voltaire, I've just handed those books to Carton. Jarvis will pay a princely sum for them, enough to put food on the table…" There was a waspish tone to her voice. In kinder times she would never have deigned to part with her precious books. D'Artagnan nodded and picked up one of the few books left on the shelves, a battered and well-worn Bible.

* * *

Dinner was fraught with forced gaiety, with their hostess trying her best to keep up everyone's spirits. The few bottles of Burgundy wine left in the house were uncorked. The kind gift of a roast ham from their guests was gratefully received. Throughout dinner, de Beaumont regaled her guests with anecdotes from her long ago sojourn in distant St Petersburg.

"Did the Empress have a dozen white horses with diamonds in their saddles?" young Lucie asked.

"Oui, white as snow with pearls in their bridles. The Empress Elizaveta and her ladies would ride them down the main streets of St Petersburg every Tuesday," the old lady beamed as she wove an outlandish tale for the child. D'Artagnan tried to draw Darnay into conversation and failed. Lucie's father was troubled. He watched his family with an air of concern. D'Artagnan soon found himself caught up in a discussion on the latest laws passed governing the medical profession with the good doctor. It was as if everyone had undertaken an oath not to speak of the events in France.

Young Lucie soon grew tired as the night drew on. D'Artagnan was sent to flag a coach for their guests as they bade their goodnights. He watched as the doctor, his daughter and grandchild mounted the coach before returning to the house. It was then that he overheard his hostess pleading with Charles Darnay.

"Charles, think of your wife and child if not for yourself," de Beaumont hissed in French.

"I can't abandon my loyal servant…" Darnay replied in French.

"It's too late for him, Charles Evermonde… Your father and uncle were scoundrels in life and your family name is much reviled. You have your mother's kind heart. It'd be a shame if you lost your life thanks to their sins! You think the law will hold sway there now that _they_ demand blood be spilled? Noble blood? They executed poor Louis..."

"Charles, as a friend, I beseech you, reconsider!" Another voice broke in this time in English. D'Artagnan stepped through the doorway and was momentarily bewildered by the sight of a dishevelled-looking but identical man clutching their guest's arm. Darnay shook his doppelganger's hand off.

"Sydney, have you made the arrangements for travel?"

"Here are the papers… Ow!" Sydney yelped as the old woman purposefully kicked him in the shin. D'Artagnan winced, wondering if he should intrude on the argument. Darnay all but snatched the papers from his lookalike's hand and left in a huff, passing D'Artagnan in the process. Still limping, Sydney Carton hastened to stop him.

"Carton, you imbecile! You should've thrown those papers in the fire if you mean to stop him!" De Beaumont hitched up her skirts and hurried after both men.

"How bad are things in France, Mademoiselle? Please, tell me the truth!" D'Artagnan seized hold of de Beaumont's arm as she passed him. A commotion outside announced that poor Carton had failed to stop Darnay's departure.

"Sacre bleu! You want me to tell you what I do know? And I do not know half of it," de Beaumont's tone was serious and the lines in her face seemed deeper. "It is enough to drive a man to drink or worse! Promise me you'll keep away from the laudanum first…" She waited until D'Artagnan had sworn upon his father's grave not to return to his addiction.

"France as we know her is gone. It's the rule of the mob there… It has been festering like a sore even during the time of Louis XV the Beloved… Pah! Beloved? The people fear him. They do not love him, or the nobles who ignored them… When I was young, I wondered at the glided halls of Versailles. Later during the course of my work, I saw the mean streets of Paris… Louis XV had his means of keeping the riff-raff in check… His spies and the Bastille… Louis XVI lacked the heart or the drive. He shied away from what must be done to keep his country together…" The outburst seemed to exhaust her and she leaned back against the mantelpiece.

"Mademoiselle, is Aramis or Athos in any danger?" D'Artagnan urged as he helped her into an armchair. She motioned for him to pour her some brandy. Her accumulated discontent at the mistreatment she and her fellow spies received whilst in Louis XV's service was known to many.

"Athos, yes. He is of noble blood, born and bred. That is reason enough for the mob to demand his blood. Aramis? He is with those Jacobins or whatever those firebrands call themselves. Eventually, yes. The fires of revolution have a nasty habit of turning on those who lit them. Robespierre, Desmoullins, Danton, Marat… doubt any of those poor fools will live to see what they had wrought on poor France…" the old woman's laughter was dry.

"Then I must return…"

"You can't. Not without great risk to your own life and your friends'."

"But I can no longer sit here safe, while they…"

"Perhaps you can return as someone else…" De Beaumont's voice took on a dreamy air. "I was once D'Eon, a young soldier. Then I was Lia, a lady-in-waiting to an Empress in St Petersburg. What a masquerade that was… In the alleys I had another name and persona… Yes, perhaps it is possible for you to return… What paths are closed to one may open to another. First, we must plan… Durand! Come here!" the old woman reached for her hand-bell and rang for the boy.

She whispered something into the boy's ear before sending him out into the night.

**Author's Notes:**

D'Artagnan's settling in England, but he's fretting to get home now that he has gone through cold-turkey treatment for his addiction to laudanum (a derivative of opium commonly used in the past). I got the idea of the treatment from an account of how they treated opium addicts in China in the 19th and early 20th century. When an addict agreed to quit, he is shut up in a bare room with a small barred window and a sturdy door. Often, to prevent self-harm, they are asked to strip naked and pass their clothes out through the bars of the window. Food and water would be passed through the bars. The person who held the key to the room must be hard-hearted (or deaf) enough to ignore all the pleas and screams coming from inside when the craving kicked in. Not everyone made it through the process and some have even died or killed themselves because they could not take it. Drug addiction is a nasty business.

I can't help throwing in characters from Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities and the outlandish character of a cross-dressing former spy (Chevalier D'Eon de Beaumont) into the mix. When I was first introduced to this character via a Japanese anime (which took many liberties with history), I thought he was just the product of a good scriptwriter. Then I found out he was a real-life eccentric who had a more colourful life than his fictional counterpart. The amazing part was him convincing everyone he was actually a woman after forty years of living as a man, then keeping up the charade of being a woman until his death.


	3. Chapter 3

The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

**Chapter 3**

_He was home, strolling casually up the tree-lined walk to his manor. He could smell the sweet scent of the apple blossoms in the air. The birds were valiantly singing their songs from every hedge and tree, Grimaud was leading the horses off to the stables after unhitching them from their coach. It was good to be home. He held a handcrafted set of toy soldiers he had bought in Paris as a gift for his son. He hoped they would be to Raoul's liking. _

"_Papa!" Raoul was waiting for him on at the open door. His son sprinted down the walk. Dropping the present, he bent down to envelope the boy in a hug. _

Athos groaned as he awoke from his dream to the stark reality of his predicament. Somewhere in the darkness, some poor soul was hacking his lungs out. At first they had been imprisoned in a tower cell overlooking the prison yard. There was a weasel-faced lawyer who visited them with promises of a fair hearing. Then the lawyer stopped calling and they were moved to the overcrowded cells in the fetid bowels of the prison where pestilence ran rampart. It was there that Grimaud took ill with a fever and died as quietly as he had lived. Athos was not even aware his loyal servant had gone until the guards came to remove the stiffening corpse with the others.

There had been no news of his son even though the weasel-lawyer had promised to bring Athos news. Now Athos feared that his son, like Grimaud, was no longer among the living. Feeling utterly despondent, Athos wrapped his now threadbare and ragged shirt around him and curled up against the damp wall. He had lost his boots and stockings sometime during his captivity and his feet wept with sores from the filth of his dungeon. He had lost count of the days by now. The rotten bread and foul-tasting water no longer inspired any sense of disgust in him. It could have been a fortnight or a year in this pit of suffering and despair. He had been wracked with fever, but he had survived somehow.

_How long would they keep him here?_ They had witnessed the building of that terrible machine or death, the guillotine, in Nantes' city square en-route to the prison. _Was he to be executed on that infernal device? _Athos decided it no longer mattered. He closed his eyes and willed himself to think back to happier memories spent with his son.

* * *

_Paris_

"Aramis!" Porthos leapt up as soon as Aramis walked into the room. "That man wishes to put the dauphin in the care of…"

"Hush! You must not refer to the child thus!" Aramis chided and hurried to close the window shutters. There were spies aplenty for the Committee. "He is Louis-Charles Capet. That is his name and that is what we must address him by."

"That scoundrel wishes the boy to speak against his mother and would not hesitate to ill-treat him to achieve his goal… At least his sister…"

"Porthos, let it go. It's not healthy for you to get too attached to them…"

"Is there any news of Athos? I hear that the royalists have been routed…"

Aramis shook his head sadly and poured out a glass of cheap wine. It had been a long hot summer. There had been rumours, simmering discontent and the guillotine ran with blood. Aramis was certain many of those condemned had no cause to be executed at all. Marat was dead, stabbed in his own bathtub by a slip of a girl. Aramis had met the murderess once. She was a meek little thing then, before the revolution cast her family adrift. Aramis mused if the deed was for the better or the worse. Marat was a firebrand, constantly supporting harsh measures against so-called enemies of the people. Paranoia and suspicions now ran through the populace. It would be Robespierre baying for royalist blood now. The man had taken up the role easily enough and proved it with this attempt to put their queen on trial.

"I saw Marie before they took her away… She asked me to keep Colette for her…" Porthos stared at a grimy ribbon in his hands. "I can't tell her they broke Colette and this is all that's left of her favourite doll…"

"Little Marie will be safe. She cannot lay claim to the throne." _Unlike her brother…_

"Then why put her mother on trial?" Porthos whispered hoarsely. "They say that the Duke, Philippe Egalite, and even Princess Elisabeth… they are all to be tried… so I heard…"

Aramis choked on his wine. Princess Elisabeth was known more for her religious piety than any of the excesses so prevalent among the noble classes. The duke was a staunch supporter of reforming the kingdom. The Committee must have gone mad. He had stopped working for the duke, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. However, his current job as a clerk was with the Committee of Public Safety, under the same man Porthos had referred to mildly as a scoundrel.

* * *

_Outside Nantes, early autumn 1793_

The route they had taken for their return to France was long and circuitous. D'Artagnan ruefully led the pony which pulled their caravan. They had secured a passage on a ship from Amsterdam bound for the Americas. The captain dropped them off the Spanish coast from whence they crossed into France via the Pyrenees. He was not alone in his endeavour. Somehow he had been saddled with a mission he had never expected anyone to attempt. He thought back to that fateful day back when he had finally convinced his hostess he was ready to risk returning to France and finding Athos and Aramis.

To be honest, he had no plan. No, they had no plan. There were only four of them, one an old woman, one a child. They were to meet with a certain woman friend in the city who might be of assistance, if the fires of the revolution had not touched her yet.

* * *

_Months earlier, London…_

The visitors came the very night Durand had been sent out with the message. They had their cloak collars raised high and their hats pulled low over their faces when they stepped into de Beaumont's parlour. However, it was obvious from their fine garments that the pair were of some standing. His hostess roused herself from her chair long enough to give the woman a hug.

"Sophia, nice to see you…"

"Nice? He still insists on returning to France for her sake and you've volunteered a travelling companion…" Turning down her collar, the woman glared at D'Artagnan. She was pale, with striking hazel eyes and a haughty air.

"He was a member of the king's personal guards before he retired due to illness. He has since recovered his strength…" de Beaumont lied glibly.

"Excellent! We must rescue them before it is too late…" the male visitor exclaimed. He turned down his collar and D'Artagnan recognized the handsome features and hazel eyes regarding him.

"Count von Fersen?" D'Artagnan gasped. He had heard rumours of the count's affair with Her Majesty. These rumours had driven the count from Versailles on more than one occasion. However, the Count always found some way to return. Even Constance, who was not given to idle gossip, had remarked on the overly friendly nature of their conversations and how the queen would find some excuse to send her ladies away during these social calls. Even now, the man's name was a byword for scandal.

"Still, I wish you were going instead of him, D'Eon… you have far more experience in the art of subterfuge," the woman sniffed.

"Madame, I've enough of this business. I sincerely desire to spend my remaining days in peace and may the Bon Dieu allow me to die in my own bed," de Beaumont claimed. "If your brother is so keen to be torn to pieces by an angry mob in France, so be it."

* * *

Yet despite her declarations of never setting foot on French soil again and protests, the old dame had joined them. D'Artagnan could hear the heated exchange between her and von Fersen from within the caravan. Durand shrugged as he strolled alongside the caravan. It was an argument they had gotten used to.

"We're taking too long… We should have gone straight to Paris…"

"Young man, patience is a virtue. We need to gather information…"

"We're wasting time!" A resounding slap broke the quiet which followed.

"Louis' flight to Varennes. That was what happened with your half-baked plan, Axel… D'Artagnan! Stop! Those eels did not agree with me…"

With a huff, the old woman clambered out of the back of the caravan and disappeared into the bushes by the road. They were all dressed as poor gypsies for this part of their journey. They were now tanned from walking in the sun since disembarking in Spain. They were not dark enough to pass for true gypsies, but de Beaumont was certain they would pass for peasants once in France.

"No one notices a beggar by the road or a peasant in the fields…" de Beaumont had explained when she first presented them with coarse garments, pony and battered caravan bought off an actual gypsy band in Spain. Pistols, an old flintlock musket and daggers were their only protection on the road. Not that a band of beggars would prove an attractive target to any brigand.

Whenever they came across a sizeable town, they would stop and gather information under the pretext of earning their coin by performances of knife-throwing, juggling and fortune-telling. Young Durand had hailed from Marseilles and was acquainted with the regional tongue as well as a smattering of pidgin Italian and Spanish. He was also adept at juggling. D'Artagnan performed daring knife-throwing feats while the old woman did the fortune-telling. The Count was unused to such a lifestyle and was prone to sulking away in the caravan. Tonight would be no exception but D'Artagnan doubted they would have an audience. There were too many deserted farmsteads and fields of rotting crops, a silent witness to some recent upheaval.

The royalist supporters had attempted to reclaim power for the monarchy and failed. D'Artagnan felt a sour taste in his mouth. "Cheer up, Monsieur… Mademoiselle promised us a decent bed and meal once we meet up with her friend…" Durand said.

"Might you know who this friend is?" D'Artagnan asked.

"This lady, well … She goes by the name Milady now… She's once a comtess…" D'Artagnan sensed the boy was holding something back.

"Anne's what some might call a fallen woman. Wed well above her station, landed a comte for a husband but she wanted more. Tried to seduce His Majesty and failed to keep his attentions. So she tried her hand at some of the other noblemen. Her husband filed for a separation. That's water under the bridge now. The folly of youth. She's doing quite well for herself… If she's lucky, everyone would have forgotten she was ever a noblewoman." The old woman had returned from the bushes.

**Author's Notes:**

D'Artagnan is on his way back to France while poor Athos is still stewing in prison. I was pondering on whether to put Milady into this AU fic since there is no Cardinal Richelieu or Duke of Buckingham. I'm not sure how much she can be trusted to aid D'Artagnan. Her feelings about the four might be slightly better since I cannot conceive of a situation where Athos might personally hang his wife in this era. Or she might just betray them to the Committee.

Historically, there was an attempt by the royal family to flee France after the Revolution but they failed. One of the persons behind the attempt was Count Axel von Fersen, a Swedish count rumoured to be the one-time lover of the queen, Marie Antoinette.


	4. Chapter 4

The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

**Chapter 4**

"I cannot let gypsies enter our establishment…" the surly servant girl who had opened the back door to them apologized. The four had worn the best travelling clothes they in their luggage, except for de Beaumont who had retained her gypsy-like disguise. The establishment was without a doubt a brothel. The young maid was clutching her shawl over her barely clothed bosom. The streets of Nantes might be deserted at this hour but the atmosphere within the building was almost festive. The old woman was not to be easily deterred.

"Ah, but we wish a word with Milady…" the old woman deftly pulled out a gold coin from under her shawl.

"I…" the young maid paused, torn between her mistress' orders and greed. Her hesitation was to cost her.

"Millie! We need more of the Burgundy…" a woman's voice called out. "Who's that at the door?"

"Anne… Is that Chantilly lace on your petticoat?" de Beaumont greeted the lady, pushing past the hapless maidservant. "And this Burgundy wine, a fine vintage from my very own estates… It seems my fears for your safety were unfounded, Anne," she drifted into the kitchen with D'Artagnan, Durand and von Fersen following in her wake. Milady was stunningly beautiful. D'Artagnan gave a sharp intake of breath at the sight. Durand helped himself to a serving tray of canapés before the outraged maidservant shooed him away.

"Well, there are some professions that flourish, no matter the climate…" Milady purred and batted her lashes coquettishly at D'Artagnan and von Fersen. "Is this a social call or shall I get my ladies to make these gentlemen comfortable. For the Count, there is a lady who has a striking resemblance to Her Majesty, but it will cost him…"

"We seek shelter, food and above all, information…" de Beaumont scowled as she surrendered half the contents of her purse to Milady.

"About what?" Milady dropped her coquettish airs. "I run a decent business here…"

"Your husband, Olivier de la Fere." D'Artagnan started at de Beaumont's words. Athos had never mentioned a wife, even fleetingly, to him. As far as he could recall, there was no portrait or any other sign of a woman ever being in Athos' life on his estate, apart from Athos' dearly departed mother.

"That man has not been to see me since our separation," Milady yawned. "How fortunate for me that we were separated before I was a Comtess for long or I would be rotting in prison like him…"

"Athos is in prison?" D'Artagnan exclaimed. "We must…"

"Calm down," de Beaumont urged and grabbed hold of D'Artagnan's shoulder before he could bolt out into the alley. "What of his son?"

"The little bastard? He's probably dead and good riddance…" At those unfeeling words, D'Artagnan fought the urge to slap the woman.

"In which case, would we have the comforts of food and board? You are still his wife, Anne, be it only in name. Would your current beau take so kindly to a noblewoman?" de Beaumont asked, her features an inscrutable mask.

"Oh, I don't know…" Milady feigned nonchalance. "The rooms will be in use until mid-morning, earliest. You might make yourselves comfortable in the kitchens if you like… Millie can get you some beard and stew if you are inclined."

"We thank you for your generosity, Madame…" the ironic edge to de Beaumont's reply did not go unnoticed by D'Artagnan. They needed both food and rest. They were obliged to make do with what was offered.

* * *

D'Artagnan awoke with Durand snuggled up against him in their corner near the stove. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shook his young companion awake. Von Fersen had disappeared sometime during the night and D'Artagnan wondered if he had succumbed to the charms of one of courtesans, probably the one who bore a passing resemblance to the queen. In the parlour, de Beaumont was surrounded by a knot of ladies waiting to have their fortunes read by an outlandish-looking gypsy woman. As D'Artagnan watched, the old lady read the card selected by a rosy-cheeked brunette.

"Ah, the Lovers. I see a time of great testing ahead, Mademoiselle, for you and your young man… never fear, true love will prevail, da?" de Beaumont affected an odd accent to her speech which was exotic to hear. D'Artagnan wondered if it were Russian. Seeking out his remaining companion, he climbed up to the upper level before ducking into an alcove at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"That man wants me in Paris with him! Calls me his lucky charm… truth is, he can't bear the thought of me with other gentlemen! Careful there, there's china in it." Milady's grumbling echoed down the hall as she directed a pair of servants moving a large trunk.

"Better you go with him, Madame… They say he is touchy. Didn't he shoot a secretary of the Duke for insulting you once?" a courtesan asked. It was the girl whom Milady had claimed resembled the queen. D'Artagnan thought the resemblance superficial at best and heightened by make-up and dim lighting. "They say he had his tailor's entire family thrown in prison after their daughter spurned him… We don't want to be called royalists or counter-what-ever… Do have a care, Milady…" she shuddered visibly.

"Don't worry. With luck he'd have his head lopped off," their hostess whispered conspiringly.

"Is it true he has tired of waiting for instructions from Paris and given orders to empty the prisons, Ma'am?"

Milady laughed dryly. "Yes. They have all been sentenced to death…You can run the place for me while I'm away… and don't get too fond of that Count."

D'Artagnan swore under his breath and hurried to find von Fersen. He found him lying asleep and naked as a new-born baby in a bed so opulent it would not have looked out of place in a Duchess' bedchambers.

"Wake up, we need to save Athos before it is too late," D'Artagnan hissed and shook him awake.

"What about Marie… I mean, Her Majesty…" von Fersen mumbled and groped for his clothes among the many silken cushions. D'Artagnan did not wait for him to get dressed but hastened downstairs to find de Beaumont.

* * *

It was with great relief that the grisly machine was idle in the city square. Travellers they had encountered told lurid tales of how the heavy blade severed bone and flesh with great ease and how the ground underneath ran red with blood. The prison itself was heavily-guarded. The guards wore shapeless cloth caps and carried wicked-looking bayonets, muskets and other weapons. Half-dozen scrawny youngsters practised their drumming at the prison walls. Taking in the impregnable stone walls and heavy guard, D'Artagnan was forced to admit that breaking in to effect a rescue was nigh impossible.

He was about to go away when one of the drummer-boys caught his eye. _Raoul!_

"Raoul!" D'Artagnan darted forward as the boys broke ranks and put away their drumsticks having completed their practice session. He took the boy by the shoulders and spun him round to face him. It was Raoul without a shadow of a doubt.

"Monsieur! Unhand me at once," the boy protested. There was no hint of recognition in his eyes. All D'Artagnan saw was fear and shock. He released his grip. "You are mistaken, citizen…" the boy dusted himself off. "The name's Jacques…" He stepped back from D'Artagnan before sprinting off to join his fellows who were making a game of tormenting a hapless stray dog. _Could he have been so badly mistaken? _

He had seen Raoul often enough during his stay at Athos' to be mistaken. True, the boy was scrawny and his clothes were ragged and too big for his thin frame. His face now had a pinched look to it. The drummer boy was Raoul. D'Artagnan started after the boys, only to be stopped by de Beaumont.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked. D'Artagnan haltingly explained. When he was done, the former spy shook her head.

"There are lookalikes a-plenty, young man. You must have been mistaken."

"I am not…" D'Artagnan insisted. De Beaumont whispered something into her servant boy's ear. Durand sauntered forward. Raoul was arguing with a bigger boy. Apparently, Raoul objected to the treatment of the dog. Joining the boys, Durand seemingly took Raoul's side of the argument. Insults and jeers were thrown as the argument heated up. The quarrel was disintegrating into a shoving match. The boys soon launched into a fisticuff. D'Artagnan wanted to intervene but his aged companion dragged him away from the scene.

* * *

Durand returned to Milady's house of ill-repute later that afternoon sporting a few bruises to show for his adventure. Milady had departed from the city that morning, much to D'Artagnan's relief. He realised that he had taken a strong dislike to the woman.

"His name's Jacques, at least that's what they call him. They found him wandering about the streets with a bleeding head wound and without a clue as to who he is about half a year back," the boy explained between mouthfuls of bread and gravy. "Lives with the other lads who have signed up for the revolutionary army as drummers. Says he wants to be a soldier…"

"But he is Athos' son… He can't fight with the revolutionaries…" D'Artagnan protested.

"If he has no memory of his past, he doesn't know his father's a comte…" Durand pointed out.

"Will he recover his lost memories, ever?" D'Artagnan asked. He should have returned sooner to France.

"Perhaps with time, months, years… or perhaps never," de Beaumont replied. "When I was in St Petersburg, there was a young captain who was kicked in the head by a horse. When he finally awoke, he was like a young child. Had to be taught how to feed and dress himself all over again. Perhaps for Raoul to deny his past would be to save his life… Now, where's that Axel?" she put down her knitting needles.

"I thought I saw Monsieur von Fersen with Mademoiselle Cecilia, the one they say looks like the queen… Oh, Madame, the boys heard them say they would be executing the all prisoners tonight," Durand added. "If Jacques' father is one of those prisoners, should we tell him?" he sucked the gravy off his fingers. D'Artagnan swore under his breath. De Beaumont clucked her tongue. They had to act, _and soon._

* * *

_Paris_

Aramis strolled into their rooms with a smile on his face. He finally had some good news for his comrade. Porthos was cleaning his boots with a rag. "Porthos, Athos is alive, but imprisoned in Nantes," he patted Porthos on the shoulder.

"In prison? Athos in prison? We must do something…" Porthos leapt to his feet.

"We will, I promise…" Aramis replied. Olivier de la Fere was a known royalist. Perhaps some letters signed by members of the Committee, vouching for his sympathies with the revolution… It would be an uphill task to convince them. It would be difficult, but at least he was alive. There was still hope. That was what was important both to Athos and them.

_But who could he safely approach?_ Robespierre has become increasingly paranoid after Marat's murder. General Lafayette had been arrested on suspicions of pro-royalist sympathies. He could try Camille Desmoulins, but no, the man has yet to forgive him after an unfortunate incident involving the lovely Madame Desmoulins. Madame Roland, a dear friend of his, was already under suspicion and it would be a matter of time before she was arrested. _The others... _

"Wine?" Porthos offered his friend his hip-flask. Aramis silently accepted.

**Author's Notes:**

I have put to rest the question of Raoul's well-being. There is a slight change in the title – Since the royalist factions would have considered Louis Charles King Louis XVII upon the death of Louis XVI, I have decided to stick to that convention.


	5. Chapter 5

The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

Violence and death up ahead. Rating has upped to an M. There is no way to gloss over mass murder, sorry.

**Chapter 5**

Athos sensed something huge was happening when he awoke to the shouts of their jailors. Someone prodded him onto his feet. _Were they to be freed_? He blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the harsh glare of the moonlight when he emerged into the open. He had been in the darkness of his cell so long that it was like stepping into daylight.

"Move!" someone hit him about the shoulders with a musket butt. He complied, joining the milling prisoners. There were old men, women, children, even babes-in-arms. The guards forcibly marched them towards the harbour. Somewhere in the crowd of wretched prisoners, a priest prayed aloud in Latin, only to be silenced by a blow to the skull. Athos winced at the sharp stones cutting his bare feet to shreds. Women wept in terror. Children cried and clung onto their elders.

Athos guessed what was planned for them when he saw the boat. It sat dangerously low in the water. Prisoners were packed into the small craft such that it rocked dangerously. Water lapped about his ankles. The soldiers were tying their sturdier rowboats to the limping vessels of the prisoners. A man on Athos' boat saw his chance for escape. He tried to leap into the river and swim for it. His escape was cut short by an eagle-eyed soldier nearby and a well-placed swing of a hatchet. With his skull cleaved open, the hapless victim bobbed away on current. Athos resigned himself to death.

"Tie them up!" someone shouted. A pair of scrawny lads barely into their teens joined the prisoners on the boat. Athos meekly placed his hands behind his back, offering his wrists to be tied.

"Not enough rope, captain!" A familiar voice called out. Athos glanced up. _Dare he hope? It sounded like Raoul._

"We're out of chains. Tie up the men and boys," the instructions were yelled back. The lads went about their grim task. Most of the prisoners were too weak to resist. Athos saw him. It was Raoul. Unlike his comrade, Raoul looked pale and distracted. He held a good length of rope but he did not tie anyone up, unlike his comrade who went about his task with a devilish enjoyment.

"Every man's tied…" That voice was Raoul's without a doubt. Athos looked up into the boy's face. As he did so, he unconsciously brought his hands forward, betraying the fact he had been left unrestrained.

"You missed one, Jacques. Go tie him up, now…" the older teen ordered.

"I'm sorry…" Raoul whispered as he stepped up to Athos.

Athos allowed the boy to loop the rope about his wrists, tying them behind his back. He could sense Raoul's reluctance. The knot was poorly-tied. What disturbed Athos was the genuine lack of recognition in Raoul's face. He could have been a stranger to Raoul. _Why was he going by the name Jacques now?_ _How the boy must have suffered during this time, his poor boy._ The boys joined the soldiers on the rowboat and the prisoners were dragged out into the open waters of the river.

Athos worked at quietly loosening his bonds. He was a strong swimmer and he prayed that his weakened state and icy currents would not prevent his escape. He had a chance to live, and a reason to.

* * *

"They are taking the prisoners to the water!" Durand reported as he ran in through the door. They had finished their packing earlier and were catching some sleep in the kitchen. D'Artagnan knew they had only one chance at finding and saving Athos. "_Snatch him from the carts. They will take the condemned out to the guillotine in the mornings, so I hear_," de Beaumont suggested. De Beaumont was hesitant and did not sound optimistic. Athos had been taken several months ago. He might have perished of goal fever. Durand and D'Artagnan had taken turns watching the prison for signs of the dreaded carts.

De Beaumont dropped her knitting. This was not what they expected. "How many?" she asked.

"Hundreds," Durand replied excitedly. "The whole prison is being emptied. Even children. We go rescue them now?"

"We have to do something!" D'Artagnan leapt to his feet. Axel von Fersen was jolted awoke by D'Artagnan's outburst. Under the cover of night and the usual commotion from the house's regular nightly entertainments, they left the building for the city's harbour.

* * *

"We can't do anything but pray for them," the old spy said quietly when their motley crew reached the waterfront. They were hopelessly outnumbered and out-armed by the soldiers. The prisoners had been forced onto barges and other rickety vessels on the harbour. It was too late. D'Artagnan clenched his fists in helpless rage at what he was witnessing. The prisoners had realised the fate planned for them. Screams and pleas could be heard through the night air. Fersen sprinted off back in the direction of the brothel, unable to continue witnessing the impending massacre. De Beaumont and Durand clasped their hands as they stood in the shadows, praying silently. Some of the city's citizens have emerged from their waterside dwellings, watching in horrified silence at the scene. No one dared protest.

"Do something!" D'Artagnan beseeched. "There are women and children…"

"Hold your tongue," de Beaumont shook her head and said firmly. They could not afford drawing attention to themselves. _We cannot save all of them,_ de Beaumont's piercing blue eyes said sadly as she looked up from her prayers. D'Artagnan punched his fist impotently at a nearby wall, bruising his knuckles. The pain sliced through his rage like a knife. He leaned back into the shadows, closing his eyes, praying and wishing they could have done more.

* * *

Athos had studied the grim armada of vessels which had put out from the harbour. The barges were death-traps for those within their holds. It was only luck he had been placed in an open boat. The splintering of wood as the hull of their fragile craft was breached announced that they have reached the spot of their destined mass grave. The boat was sinking and screams filled the air. Water was filling the boat now like an unstoppable tide. The last loop of rope slid of Athos' wrist as pandemonium broke out. The soldiers had drawn alongside the prisoners to sink the boat and now they were beating off panicked men and women desperate for their lives.

The boat finally capsized, flipping Athos and the remaining occupants into the cold water. Athos found himself surrounded by struggling and flailing victims. The womenfolk's long heavy skirts would drag them down even if they could swim and many of the men were already weakened by prolonged imprisonment or injuries. Athos forced himself not to panic but to suck in a gulp of air and dive deep. Poor souls who surfaced too near the soldiers were despatched by bayonets, hatchets and the occasional pistol.

His legs kicked as he ploughed through the murky water. His lungs screamed for air. His tattered rags felt like a dead weight on his body. Something or someone caught his ankle. Athos desperately kicked out. Blackness was closing in on him.

_What would happen to Raoul if he should die? Raoul was alive and Athos will find him. _He had to live for his son's sake. Those were his last thought before he tore himself free and lost consciousness.

* * *

It was a massacre. The citizens of Nantes whispered in hushed horror and scurried back to their homes when the first of the soldiers returned to the pier. Of the barges and the prisoners' boats, there were little sign of them in the fog which had rolled in. A cloud obscured the moon as if she were ashamed of what she had witnessed. A pall of darkness fell across the city. D'Artagnan did not know how long he sat there with the old woman and boy before de Beaumont took out a tinderbox and lit the lantern she had brought. Carefully, she lowered the shades so that the light of their lantern was muted. She repeated the manoeuvre with a second lantern and handed it to D'Artagnan.

"Someone might have survived," she whispered. If they did not drown, exposure would kill any survivors quickly. They plodded along the river where the waters met stinking mud. Some bodies had washed up there. Here was a woman still clutching her babe. Both dead. There a priest with half his face gone. The mud sucked and clung to their boots, making it tedious to walk. They were alone. No one else had thought to comb the banks. _Surely someone mourned the lives lost? Or had entire communities been wiped out in one fell swoop?_ Perhaps the citizens were too terrified to be even seen mourning. The moon reluctantly slipped out for a cautious peek. Durand returned to the embankment to keep a lookout.

"Athos… no!" D'Artagnan gasped when he saw a familiar form lying sprawled in the mud. The body was lying on his side, eyes closed. The river still lapped about his legs, as if reluctant to surrender its prize. D'Artagnan rolled Athos over. Athos had grown a beard since they last saw each other. His face was almost skeletal in the pale moonlight. He lifted Athos' head into his lap.

It was to D'Artagnan's relief that Athos sucked in a ragged breath and spluttered out a mix of mud and river water.

"R-Raoul…" the man's eyelids fluttered open and his eyes focused on the face before him. "D-D'Artagnan. What are you doing here, you wretched boy?"

D'Artagnan almost laughed with joy. Athos was alive. He was gaunt and weak from his captivity, but he was alive. He hugged his friend.

"Ouch, I need to breath… has anyone seen Raoul?" Athos complained. He was freezing and his limbs refused to obey him. The warmth of D'Artagnan's body pouring into his chilled one brought on an almost painful sensation of pins and needles. D'Artagnan pulled off his overcoat and threw it over Athos' shoulders when his friend started shivering violently.

"So this is Athos, Comte Olivier de la Fere…" de Beaumont had caught up with them. She studied Athos carefully by the light of her lantern. "Hurry, it will soon be dawn…" she warned. Athos leaned heavily on D'Artagnan as he limped to where Durand kept watch from the top of the embankment.

To everyone's surprise, Durand was not alone. With him was Raoul, or Jacques, as he was now known.

"Found him walking about the waterfront alone. He's been crying…" Durand explained. Shamefacedly, Raoul blinked away his tears. He blanched when he saw Athos.

"M-monsieur, are you a ghost c-come to haunt me?" Raoul blurted. Athos did not reply but engulfed Raoul in a hug. Raoul cried out in shock.

"Raoul, my precious son. You're alive…"

"You… you can't be my father… I tried to kill you…" Raoul spluttered and tried to wriggle free.

"You told me you can't recall your past, Jacques. He might be your father…" Durand added impishly. D'Artagnan, his words choked in his throat from emotion, could only nod in agreement.

"Easy there…" de Beaumont warned. She scowled as she struggled up the steep bank. Durand hastened over to aid her.

"You tied my knots so loosely I was able to break free… You saved my life…" Athos wept and breathed in the scent of his son's damp hair which still reeked of the river. "R-Raoul?" The boy went limp in his arms.

"Nice work, Olivier. The shock's too much for the poor lad," de Beaumont said. "D'Artagnan, go get Axel and our cart and horse. We are leaving for Paris at dawn. Perhaps Jacques wish to return to his soldier friends before he gets arrested for desertion?"

"No, madame! I do not wish to return to them, even if it means deserting! I can't! Not after tonight!" Raoul's vehement outburst took them by shock. He made use of the distraction to pull away from his father's embrace. "I c-can't face them after what we did…"

* * *

It was an odd situation indeed on the road to Paris. Athos was still weak but growing in strength with each day. He rode in the cart resting as his body healed. Fersen was of similar build to Athos and was persuaded to spare him some clean clothes. He now plodded alongside D'Artagnan on their journey. They were now a poor family travelling to Paris.

There hung an uneasy awkwardness between Raoul and Athos. Raoul was reluctant to acknowledge Athos as his father. He only responded to the name Jacques. The poor boy suffered nightmares and it was not uncommon for him to awake screaming at night. It pained Athos most that during these episodes, it was de Beaumont who Raoul sought out for comfort. He took well to de Beaumont's rough mothering and Durand's easy friendship. Axel von Fersen grumbled constantly about the invalid Athos and Raoul being a liability to their plans, which probably involved the rescue of his beloved. D'Artagnan came close to exchanging blows with him on occasion.

"What do you intend to do on reaching Paris, Jacques?" D'Artagnan asked Raoul.

"Don't know. Maybe I want to see for myself the true face of liberty. I do not believe what happened in Nantes that night was… Something must have gone wrong…" Raoul said solemnly. "There was a little girl that night. She wasn't tied up and she got into the boat I was in… The captain – he just shot her in the head and ordered us to roll her over the side. She had brown hair and eyes and she was looking straight at me when…" Raoul bit his lip. He was having some doubts about what he had been taught by his guardians.

"Do you remember anything at all of your life before being Jacques?" D'Artagnan prodded gently. Raoul hesitated before shaking his head and running off to join Durand by the fire.

"He doesn't remember, D'Artagnan …" Athos said quietly as he stepped out from behind the tree where he had been eavesdropping on the conversation. "When they took me, they hit him in head with a musket butt. He has the scar. It is Raoul but he is not Raoul."

The old scar half-hidden under his hair was not the only scar Raoul had collected. When he was with the soldiers, he had been whipped constantly by his guardians for not complying with the new terms of address they had to now use. 'Citizen' and 'citizeness' refused to slip off his tongue as easily as 'monsieur' and 'madame'. Poor Raoul's back was a collection of half-healed gashes where the birch had cut into his skin. Athos' heart ached whenever he glimpsed those wounds but De Beaumont only dryly remarked that it was a sign Raoul's family had taught him well.

**Author's Notes:**

There were several recorded mass drownings in Nantes during the Reign of Terror between 1793-1794. The initial drownings targeted Catholic priests but the later executions included men, women and children suspected of being royalist sympathizers. For the purposes of this fic, I have combined the separate events and brought them forward in the timeline.

Next stop, Paris?


End file.
